A Thought
by Elouera
Summary: Ever wonder what's running through Ron and Hermione's minds?  Well, here it is in my humble opinion!


A Thought

by: M. Melody

When I think of Ron, I think of laughter. I think of crying. I think of anger.

He is everything that I am, yet everything that I am not.

He has the ability to look at the world and see it as good, even when things couldn't be worse.

He is the one who wipes away my tears, even when he's the one who caused them.

He is the one who stole my heart, but doesn't even know what he possesses.

He is the one who looks at me, and really sees. He sees beyond the bushy brown hair, the buck teeth, the bookworm tendencies.

He is the one who shoots me glances across the room, ones full of love and awe, and doesn't think I notice.

He doesn't know that I see him as more than a friend; he is my love, the only one I see.

Yet, he is insufferable. He is the least understanding person I know, but somehow I love that.

He makes me cry almost everyday, he makes me laugh even more often.

He puts me into spells of dizziness; he makes me feel like I'm flying, he makes me feel like I'm spiraling down a long dark tunnel of hurt and hatred.

He pulls me out of the trenches in my mind, slams me back onto earth, and shoves my problems right in my face.

He rarely lets anything go, he makes a hobby out of bullying me, yet he's always a pillow to fall back on.

No matter how mad he makes me, how hard I cry over him, how much I wish he could get over his blindness and notice me, I always go to bed happy that I know him as well as I do.

I know his fears, he knows mine, we share everything, yet we know nothing about each other. He can't read my thoughts, he can't see past my eyes. But those beautiful oceans in his face are terrible at hiding his emotions. I can see protectiveness, disgust, mocking fun, hate, and love in those eyes.

He aims many different thought filled glances in my direction, but he doesn't know I see.

He doesn't realize that I am a girl, that I need him, that I don't date because I know who I want.

He can't see that I won't move on until I get a taste of what I need from him.

I need to know whether he wants me for what I am, for what I need, for my desires, or whether he just sees me as a homework assignment to copy off, a friend to complain to, a girl who's swallowed the encyclopedia of everything.

He makes fun of me well enough, but if I ever get upset, he's always there to apologize, to say he didn't really mean it, that he was just having fun.

He's gotten so close to admitting something to me, he's actually said, "Hermione, we have to talk," but then McGonagall came in and yelled at us to get to bed.

I think that he needs me as much as I need him, that he wants us to be an _us _so bad that he can't fall asleep some nights.

I just wish I knew if he really felt about me like his eyes say he does.

When I think of Hermione, I think of her eyes, of her lips, of her skin.

Her eyes, like pools of chocolate, the kind that Mum used to make. She melted it in a pot, and we dipped fruits and vegetables in it. I can see the ripples of a pond in her eyes, deep as the deepest ocean, complex as the mountains, valleys, and rivers of Europe.

Her lips, pink and full, calling out to me, how much I want to lean in and touch them, kiss them with a passionate fury that I've bottled up inside of me.

Her skin, perfectly tan, smooth as butter, soft as silk. Her skin, which I just long to caress, I savor the moments when my arm brushes hers in the hallways, when our hands touch gently, when reaching for a platter at meal time. The skin that I want to hold.

I think of the way her hair floats on the wind, on the way out to Care of Magical Creatures. The way it is bushier than ever when she gets mad.

I love the way you can see the fire in her eyes when something makes her angry, it's a passion that nothing could ever rival.

I hate the way I can make her cry so easily. I hate myself for bringing her so much pain, for causing her so much heartache.

I don't know how someone so perfect would ever like such a mess as me.

I perceive myself as lucky because she even tolerates me as a friend, no matter how tight her temper is. She always has a listening hear, and a mouth to shout at me.

A mouth shaped perfectly for a painting. A mouth that talks and talks, yet I don't hear a word it says. A mouth that is begging me to just cut her off with a kiss.

I wish I had the strength to kiss her, to tell her what I need to say.

In the hallways I wish I had the nerve to reach out and take her hand, with her perfectly shaped nails.

I wish that she knew how I felt, that I could let go of this secret, let it be known, show her through physical actions how much I love her.

Ron and Hermione were walking back to Gryffindor Tower after the Halloween Feast, when Ron said, "Hermione, will you take a slight detour with me; I want to show you something."

"Er, all right, but make it quick, we have homework to get back to."

"Always with the homework," he muttered.

"What's that?" she said, even though she knew exactly what he had said.

"Nothing, just come on." He led her down two staircases and to the end of a hallway, where they entered an unused classroom.

"What's in here?" Hermione asked the blushing Ron suspiciously.

He said nothing but took her hand, and placed his other hand on her hip, pulling her closer to him and kissing her gently on the lips.


End file.
